Up In the Tree

Up in the tree, there lies a little bird’s nest,
With the baby birds chirping as their parents fly west.
As the sun goes down, it turns as bright as their chests,
And the unseen monster whooshes past, shaking the nest,
It really is time for the birds to rest.

Up in the tree, there floats the smell of maple syrup, ready to be taken,
But the people down below have not yet wakened,
They are still dreaming about tasty bacon.
The seasons pass by, and by the wind, the tree is shaken,
But the maple syrup has still not been taken.

Up in the tree, there hang colourful leaves,
Fluttering like butterflies on the tree’s sleeves.
And slowly, with the wind, each one of them leaves,
Leaving the tree alone as it grieves,
About the loss of its lovely leaves.

Up in the tree, there is nothing there,
Just a few withered branches and polluted air.
Birds’ nests, maple syrup and leaves are now rare,
And for the worst the tree has to prepare,
For pollution can kill all that’s unaware.